


blue and yellow

by burrfication



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cursed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Curses, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26007625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burrfication/pseuds/burrfication
Summary: When ambushed by Nilfgaardian forces, Geralt finds himself rendered human. He and Jaskier immediately set out to find a witcher to help them track down the mage. All they have to do is keep Geralt alive until then. In the meantime, Geralt must learn to navigate the world as a human, complete with dull senses, weaker muscles, and oddly familiar emotions.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 74
Kudos: 406





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This comes with my usual disclaimer that Geralt is closer to game!Geralt than show!Geralt here. 
> 
> Content warnings: foul language and minor violence

When you angered the Empire, Jaskier liked to say, assassination attempts were like periods: annoying, messy, and regular as clockwork. 

"It's not like a period," Geralt said. 

"Do you even know what a period is?" Jaskier asked him. The silence that followed dragged on a little too long, and Jaskier bounced on the spot and clapped his hands together in glee. "You don't!"

"Women bleed a special kind of blood. It smells different," Geralt said. "And we don't get ambushed that often. It's a shit analogy."

Two days later, they were ambushed.

For the most part, Jaskier considered himself an asset in such fights. While he may have no fighting skills, he did have a dagger and a lot of anger, and he was more than willing to kill anyone trying to hurt Geralt. And when people assumed Geralt was the only threat, he took advantage of it. He would never win a fair fight, but he didn't need to. All he needed was a chance. 

No such chance came. Before he managed to stab even a single assassin, a man came up behind him and struck Jaskier on the back of his head. Jaskier crumpled on the spot. The last thing he saw before blackness took him was a mage, hands glowing, eyes fixed on Geralt. A mage was bad news. He tried to pray, but before he could, everything went black.

He awoke, groggy, to the feel of someone hunched over his chest, shaking and shuddering with every breath. 

"M'fine," Jaskier grumbled, and opened his eyes. Eyes as blue as the summer sky stared back in shock. Jaskier recoiled instinctively. "Get off me!"

"Jaskier," the stranger said, reaching out towards his face. There was something familiar about his voice, but not familiar enough to make Jaskier hesitate. He punched the man square in the nose, twisting his torso against the ground to put as much force behind the blow as possible. While the man was still reeling from the blow, Jaskier thrust his hips up and to the side. They rolled, ending with Jaskier settled between the man's legs. He scrambled forward to straddle him and drew his dagger, pressing it against his throat. 

"Where is Geralt?"

The man's eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "Jaskier, it's me."

"Bullshit," Jaskier snarled, pressing the knife forward just a fraction. "Listen to me. Geralt may have qualms about killing humans, but I do not. Tell me where my witcher is."

"Jaskier, you've hit your head, it's me," the man insisted. "We met in Posada. You had bread in your pants. You hate autumn and you love flowers and you cried last time you were drunk because you found out I never heard music while training at Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier pulled back, but did not drop the knife. He stared at the man in front of him in undisguised horror. Brown hair fell in loose waves around the man's face where it had escaped its tie. There were no scars on his face, and his eyes were hideously blue. But the armor he wore was familiar, as was the humming silver pendant around his neck. The shape of his jaw was right, and his voice was familiar, if less gravelly. 

"Geralt," he said weakly, "Geralt, what happened?"

"Ambush."

"Your eyes are blue!"

Said eyes widened in disbelief. A second later, something like fear crept into his expression. Geralt swallowed heavily and sat up, swinging an arm at Jaskier. The arm slammed into his side, but the blow was not even heard enough to wind him. When he realised Jaskier still sat on him, Geralt snarled. 

"Off, bard."

"Oh, I've been demoted again, have I?" Jaskier asked, trying to distract himself from the unpleasant twisting feeling in his chest. The blow to his side had been meant to move him. He shifted to one side and watched as Geralt scrambled away. His movements were clumsy and sluggish, nothing like the grace with which he normally moved. 

Roach shied away from him when he approached. Geralt's steps faltered. He stopped, his shoulders shaking badly. Jaskier walked up behind him, hesitating just a second before putting a hand on his shoulder. Geralt flinched at the touch, so he retracted his hand immediately. 

"Do you want me to get the mirror?"

Geralt nodded stiffly. Jaskier spared a moment to soothe Roach before fetching the small hand mirror from his personal pack. It was a battered and scratched old thing, but it would do the job. 

"You know, now that I'm over the shock of it, you don't look half bad," Jaskier said, already bracing himself for Geralt's reaction. Perhaps if he softened the blow now, he would cope better. 

Geralt stared at his reflection for several seconds. He tugged on his hair, then brushed his fingers over where there had previously been a scar, just below his left eye. He looked from the reflection to Jaskier. Then, without a word, he turned his attention to the corpses around him. 

He searched each one, occasionally stumbling or needing to reach out to correct his balance. Once they had learnt all they could from the dead men, Jaskier took Roach by the reins, and the three of them continued down the road. Jaskier was silent, giving Geralt time to think. After what felt like an age, he spoke.

"Is it always like this?" 

"You're going to have to be more specific."

Geralt hesitated before he spoke haltingly. "Before you woke up, I thought you were dead. I couldn't hear your heart."

"Oh," Jaskier said, his heart rate picking up at the words. "You usually can?"

"Everything is muted. And my nose! I can't smell a thing."

Jaskier sniffed the air. "There's not much to smell."

When he turned to check on Geralt's expression, he found him staring at him with wide eyes and furrowed brow. 

"How are any humans still alive?"

Jaskier put a hand on Geralt's shoulder and squeezed. He tried not to notice how much thinner the shoulder was, instead focusing on the fact that his friend was alive. 

"We'll fix this. And when we do, you're telling me exactly I how much you can hear."

For a long time Geralt was silent. "We need to find the others. I can't track the mage that did this in this condition."

"And how are we going to do that?"

"The town we were heading for had a griffin problem. If we get there first, all we have to do is hope that the next witcher to come along is someone we know."

It wasn't the greatest plan Jaskier had ever heard, but it was better than none. 

"In the meantime, we need to get you a disguise."

"Hmm."

Some things, at least, hadn't changed. The thought gave Jaskier some hope. 

"Two swords, medallion, permanently grumpy expression - even without the white hair, you're not exactly hard to recognise as a witcher. And you're not, well, quite as indestructible as usual."

There was a long pause. 

"I can leave the silver sword with Roach," Geralt said, sounding as if he were offering to leave his left arm behind. 

"Wear the medallion beneath your clothes, too. And we'll need to get you new armor. Something that fits."

Geralt grunted, which Jaskier chose to take as consent. 

It wasn't that Geralt had shrunk. He was still just as tall, with wide shoulders and a respectable amount of muscle. Unfortunately, 'respectable' had not a patch on Geralt's normal frame. The armor hung loose in several places, calling attention to his missing biceps and human-sized thighs. 

They stopped for the night only when both Jaskier and Geralt were near stumbling with exhaustion. While Jaskier set up their camp, Geralt stood and eyed the setting sun as if it had personally insulted him. Once Jaskier settled down by the fire, he joined him and stared at him. 

"Is night always this dark?"

Jaskier couldn't help but laugh. It was a cruel instinct, but every single one of Geralt's complaints about his clumsiness or weakness flooded through his mind in an instant. Geralt grunted. After a pause, he said,

"Shouldn't have made you walk at night. Dangerous."

"It's not that bad," Jaskier said, bumping their elbows together. The look on Geralt's face said he disagreed, but he did not push the issue. 

The next night they stopped early. Jaskier himself could have continued on for longer, but he remembered all too clearly the ache of exhaustion that had haunted his first few months following Geralt. He stretched his arms, feigned a wince, and declared he was done for the day. Once the camp was set up, he pulled out his lute and began to play. After a few minutes he noticed Geralt watching him with a familiar crease in his brow. When he caught Jaskier looking, he looked away and resumed polishing his sword. 

Jaskier played for as long as daylight allowed. It was only when he was putting his instrument away that Geralt spoke. 

"Does it always sound like that?"

"Like what?"

"It's not buzzing."

"Buzzing?" Jaskier asked, before it clicked. He gaped at Geralt, torn between horror and outrage. His voice rose in pitch as he squawked, "Geralt, are you accusing me of playing out of tune?"

Uncertainty flickered over Geralt's face. "It does sound worse then."

Curious now, Jaskier picked up his lute once more and, against every instinct he had, tweaked it out of tune. He then played the first few chords of "Toss A Coin" and watched Geralt shudder.

"Yeah. That's more like it. "

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth several times, but no sound came out. Years of Geralt's complaints had gone completely ignored, Jaskier assuming he was either too boorish to appreciate misery or, more likely, too stubborn to admit he liked it. He'd never considered the effect Geralt's extra sensitive hearing might have on his ability to enjoy music. And if every lute sounded out of tune - the mere thought was enough to make Jaskier shudder. He re-tuned the lute and began to play a soft, intricate melody. The entire time, he could feel Geralt's unnaturally blue eyes staring at him from across the fire. 

"It's nice," Geralt said, and despite years of training, Jaskier's fingers fumbled over the frets. He looked up, cheeks flushing pink. 

"I'd hope so. I've only dedicated my entire life to it."

He put the lute away for dinner, but at Geralt's request, he played again until Geralt's head began to nod. It was a warm night, so there was no excuse to share a bedroll, but that did not stop Jaskier from setting up right beside Geralt. With the witcher so lost and confused, Jaskier could not help but feel protective. He stayed awake for two hours after Geralt dozed off beside him and told himself it was purely out of concern for Geralt. It had nothing to do with the snoring and snuffling and generally human noises coming from his companion keeping him awake. 

The road had never seemed as hard as it did for the first few days after Geralt's transformation. Geralt was even more stubborn than usual and more alien than Jaskier had ever known. Every time he turned to his friend, he felt an uncomfortable swooping feeling in his gut at the sight of blue eyes and brown curls. It was wrong. Jaskier could feel it in his bones, and he wanted to scream with how unnatural it felt. When he woke in the middle of the night, there were no golden eyes gleaming in the dark. When they stopped to camp, Geralt did not sniff the air and tell him exactly what creatures were nearby. He needed his meat cooked, and not once did he stare into the darkness like a cat sighting prey in the depths of night. 

Worst of all, when they walked into town the next day, not one person stared. 

By rights, Jaskier should have been elated. It was the kind of greeting he had longed for a week ago, so Geralt could go one day without being treated like a monster. Now, though, every smile sent their way felt like a knife in his chest. 

They booked a room in the cheapest tavern in town. Few towns were big enough to support several taverns, but this town sat on the crossroads of two important trade routes. As usual, Jaskier negotiated with the innkeeper and managed to secure free meals in return for a performance in the evening.

"I don't suppose you can throw a bath in to the mix, too? Only my companion and I have been on the road for a few days, " Jaskier asked, leaning into the bar with a charming smile. The innkeeper, a stern looking woman in her thirties, looked at Jaskier. She then looked at Geralt, and her cheeks turned pink.

"I think we can manage that. Tell your companion it's on the house."

"Right," Jaskier said, and bit back the surge of jealousy in his gut. 

"I got us a bath," he told Geralt, shepherding him up the stairs to their room. "And you can borrow my clothes, they'll fit you better and work as a disguise."

"Why was the woman at the bar staring at me?" Geralt asked. Jaskier heard the unspoken question in his voice. Usually, someone paying that much attention to Geralt was a sign they were about to get kicked out. For a moment, Jaskier considered lying. Despite what Geralt thought, he was good at lying, especially when the audience couldn't hear the pounding of his heart or smell the adrenaline in his sweat. He dismissed the idea as quickly as it came to him. It would be cruel to take advantage of Geralt’s current condition like that. 

"You're going to be our new ticket to free room and board. All you'll have to do is bat those pretty eyelashes at people and they'll be falling over themselves to give you what you want."

"You think my eyes are pretty?" Geralt asked, baffled. Jaskier choked on nothing at all and let out a wheeze.

"That's a no, then."

"She liked your eyes," Jaskier corrected, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. He regretted it when he saw Geralt's eyebrows pull together in confusion. 

"Frankly, I don't see the appeal," Jaskier said. "I think they're creepy. And there's only room for one blue eyed beauty in our friendship, and that role is taken."

He paced back and forth across the room as he spoke, putting their things in their place and checking the room for anything that looked out of place. As he did so, Geralt stood in a corner. Ordinarily Jaskier would have described it as brooding (or sulking, if he was in a particular foul mood), but as it was, he looked almost anxious. The maid sent in with the bath practically cooed over him. 

"I don't surprise you need any help with your bath, m’lord?" she asked with a wink. 

"No," Geralt said. The word was delivered in a flat monotone, and even if it was missing the animalistic growl that normally accompanied his words when he was annoyed, the implicit 'fuck off' in his words was clear. Jaskier could have kissed him. That wasn't in and of itself an unusual feeling, but this time it probably had something to do with the savage delight Jaskier felt when the maid blanched and scurried out of the room. 

"Alright, " Jaskier said, once they were alone. "Let's get you out of that armor and see the damage."

Geralt grunted and stripped, showing not even passing concern for modesty. Instead of the scarred and muscled body Jaskier loved, though, was an expanse of unblemished skin. Jaskier could have wept. He knew how much strength had been lost with those muscles, and he could not imagine that it was an easy burden to bear. 

Geralt wobbled a little as he stepped into the tub, still unused to his new body. At least the pleasure he took in the hot water was familiar, as he tilted his head back and let out a contented sigh that Jaskier had heard a thousand times before. 

After a moment of internal debate, Jaskier dug out his special bathing kit from the very bottom of his pack. It had been three months since he had used it, and precisely three months since he had last been separated from Geralt. The sweet scent of roses and bergamot were overpowering for a witcher's nose, no matter how much Jaskier enjoyed it. But given Geralt's current state, he would take what pleasures he could. He set them beside the bath for Geralt without mentioning the switch. 

"You know, this isn't the most appropriate thought, but this does answer the famous question about witcher anatomy," Jaskier said. He immediately regretted it. Throughout the years, he had made many advances, none of which Geralt had so much as acknowledged, let alone returned. There were boundaries Jaskier was willing to push, given Geralt had the emotional intelligence of a drowner, but this was not one of them. They were friends and friends alone. Consequently, it was extremely inappropriate for Jaskier to comment on the size of Geralt's dick.

Geralt, thankfully, did not seem to notice his faux pas. As Jaskier prattled on, he uncorked the bottle of scented oil and sniffed it. He crinkled his nose in disgust and held it at arm's length. 

"Just because I can't smell properly doesn't mean I want to bathe in shit."

Warmth bloomed in Jaskier's chest. He felt the muscles in his back loosen, and realised abruptly how much tension he'd been carrying. Despite the transformation, this was still his Geralt. 

"My mistake," he said, and packed away the oils and soaps at the bottom of his pack. This time, he brought out their normal kit. He could scarcely smell the lavender and honey worked into the soap, but he knew from experience the steam would bring out the mild scent. When he handed it to Geralt, he sniffed it, then raised an eyebrow at Jaskier. 

"I can't smell a thing."

"You will once you get started," Jaskier told him. Geralt did not look convinced, but he did not push the matter. As he bathed, a faint smell of lavender filled the room. Geralt closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The sight made Jaskier's heart wrench in his chest at the unfairness of it all. After everything Geralt had endured, he deserved better than to have his senses stolen and his strength sapped.

Without thinking, Jaskier stepped over and put his hands on Geralt's shoulder. Geralt flinched, turning and swinging an arm behind him in a hammer punch. Jaskier swayed backwards to avoid it and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 

"It's just me."

Geralt grunted and turned his back to Jaskier. After a long pause, he admitted, "You startled me."

"No more surprises," Jaskier promised, and put his hands back on Geralt's shoulders. He dug his hands into the tension and pushed, trying to drive the tension out. He'd never startled Geralt before, but then, he couldn't have taken him by surprise if he'd tried. He'd never considered that Geralt knew exactly where he was and what he was doing, even when he thought he was keeping quiet.

Once Geralt was done with the bath, Jaskier passed him one if his own outfits. Geralt looked from the red trousers to Jaskier's face, eyes wide with disbelief and upper lip curling in disgust. His teeth were white and dull, the same as Jaskier's own. 

"You can't wear your clothes. If we're lucky, people will think you stole them, instead of guessing the truth and ratting us out to Nilfgaard. This will have to do until we get you to a tailor."

While Geralt dressed, Jaskier jumped in the bath and scrubbed himself clean. The water was cool enough that he did not luxuriate and waste time as he usually did, instead cleaning and dressing himself as quickly as possible. He did not look at Geralt until he was dressed, a fact he was immediately grateful for when he did look. The sight of Geralt in his clothes caused heat to pool in his gut. It did not help that the clothes were flattering, emphasising his trim waist and accentuating his toned calves. If not for the sour look on his face he would have been damn near irresistible. Even as it was, Jaskier found himself reaching out to touch, running his hands over his biceps. 

"I look like a clown."

"You look good," Jaskier corrected, and winced at how hoarse he sounded. Geralt snorted and shook his head. He walked over to his pack, turning his back on Jaskier.

"I mean it! You're going to be beating the ladies off with a stick."

When Geralt didn't answer, Jaskier decided to go for broke. "Forget the tailor. You should keep wearing my clothes."

Geralt stood and turned, raising an eyebrow. "What possible reason could I have for doing that?"

"Nilfgaard will try again, and they're not going to think Geralt of Rivia is wearing the latest summer fashions," Jaskier said bluntly. "And it saves coin. We can buy one outfit instead of three."

As he spoke, Geralt's expression descended into anger. His eyebrows pulled together and he frowned, blue eyes glaring at Jaskier. It was the kind of expression that ordinarily sent people running for the hills. Unfortunately for Geralt, Jaskier had never been frightened of him, and he was not about to start now. 

"You're just cranky because I'm right."

"Remind me again why I put up with you."

"You know, I'm not sure," Jaskier said, rubbing his chin. "Is it my sparkling wit? My stunning good looks? Then again, I do bring in half our coin, and last time you were drunk you admitted we were friends."

"We're --"

"Oh no you don't," Jaskier scolded, jabbing his finger in Geralt's direction. "You can either thank me or keep your silence. Which, by the way, is not going to intimidate people half as much as it usually does."

"Might have something to do with the fact that I'm dressed like a - "

Jaskier slapped a hand over his mouth. He removed it when Geralt glared at him, uncomfortable with the blue of his eyes so close. Flustered, he walked out the door and prayed Geralt was following him. 

Their first stop was the local blacksmith. He took Geralt's measurements while Jaskier regaled him with a thrilling tale of how Geralt's armour had been left behind when both he and Jaskier had fled from a certain noble lady's bed. To Jaskier's delight, Geralt blushed at the raunchier parts of the story. The sight of his cheeks flushing pink was enough for Jaskier's heart to skip a beat, and he immediately resolved to make his friend blush as much as possible. 

Despite Jaskier charming the blacksmith into a generous discount, Geralt's armour still took over a third of their coin. With Jaskier now as the sole earner in their relationship, it was not a comfortable thought. 

Geralt apparently had a similar thought, as after they paid, he began to drift towards the village noticeboard. Jaskier leapt in front of him and blocked the way with his arms. 

"Oh no. You are not taking a single contract while you're like this."

"We need coin."

"We need you alive," Jaskier snapped. "You've complained enough about mercenaries getting themselves killed chasing monsters. You should listen to your own advice."

"I can still fight."

"That's something we should probably test before sending you into battle," Jaskier pointed out. For once, Geralt did not argue.

Their next stop was the tailor, a matronly woman who cooed over Geralt's blue eyes and pink cheeks. 

"You look just like my Bran when he was a young man," she sighed wistfully. "Do be sure to visit your mother often, dear. Boys don't know how much we worry."

"Dead. Died a month ago," Jaskier said, as a muscle in the corner of Geralt's eye twitched. He had no idea if it Geralt’s mother was dead, but from what he'd learnt, it was the best thing to hope for. If she was alive, and Jaskier ever met her, he would throttle her with his bare hands for abandoning Geralt as a child. 

"Oh, you poor dears," the tailor cooed. "I'm terribly sorry, you must be so upset still!"

"I'm fine," Geralt said stiffly. 

"Nonsense. Let me tell you what I see: I see a brave young man denying his grief because it's still too raw for him to cope. Your mother wouldn't want you to suffer, dearie," she said, putting a hand on Geralt's shoulder and crouching down before him. Geralt made a strangled sound. Jaskier privately thought the woman needed glasses, because all he saw was a very angry witcher contemplating extreme violence. 

"He's terribly torn up about it, of course, but that's why I wanted to treat him to something nice," Jaskier intervened, trying to get things back on track. The woman smiled at him and patted Geralt's cheek. 

"Of course, dear. You're lucky to have such a good brother. What's your favourite colour?"

Geralt looked to one side, and Jaskier could see the panic in his eyes. Please, he thought, Melitele have mercy, don't let him say black. Their eyes locked for a moment and Jaskier mouthed "yellow" behind the woman's back. Geralt looked back to the woman and said, 

"Blue."

"To bring out your lovely eyes," she said approvingly. "Did you have anything in mind for the design?"

Geralt gestured to Jaskier, who took over the conversation. He talked her out of a fabric the same colour as Geralt's eyes, pushing her towards navy instead. Since she had taken such pity on Geralt, she offered to embroider the collar and sleeves for free in a pretty silver thread that reminded Jaskier of Geralt's hair. 

When they left the tailor, there was a small frown on Geralt's face. "Are humans always like this?"

"Like what?"

Geralt's nose crinkled slightly, and his voice was thick with disgust when he said, "Touchy."

"I'm always touching you," Jaskier pointed out, slinging arm around Geralt's shoulder to drive the point home. The little pull he usually gave to pull himself in instead dragged Geralt to him, earning a glare. 

"You know what I mean. You don't count."

For once, Jaskier found himself glad to not count. He was well aware he was special, of course. No other living human had set foot in Kaer Morhen. He was entrusted with more knowledge about witchers than anyone but the witchers themselves. When it came to Geralt in particular, he suspected he knew more about Geralt than Geralt did himself, at least when it came to emotional matters. But despite knowing all this, it was nice to hear it validated. 

"No, I don't. I had the good sense to see how handsome you were from the start."

"You keep saying that," Geralt said, the frown on his face deepening. "I'm not --"

"Well, not now obviously," Jaskier said, waving a hand dismissively. "You're miserable, not to mention seeing you like this is," (here he paused, gesturing at Geralt and shuddering),"wrong. Unnatural."

He glanced back at Geralt, only to find the frown on his face had vanished, but the lines on his brow deepened in confusion. "You think I'm unnatural now."

"You can't hear my heart. You haven't once sniffed the air and commented on the weather, or the people around us, or me. You snore and you have no scars and to top it all off your eyes are bloody blue!"

Jaskier's voice rose in both pitch and volume as he spoke until he was all but shouting at Geralt. He paced back and forth as he did so, waving his hands in agitation. Geralt stood with his arms crossed, listening to Jaskier rant with an unreadable expression. When he was done, all he said was, 

"Hmm."

"You have no idea how happy I am to hear that stupid noise," Jaskier spoke at normal volume. The frantic energy that had filled him left as quickly as it came. "Come on. Let's get back to the tavern. We can finish our errands tomorrow."

They passed the rest of the afternoon in their room. At Geralt's suggestion, they spent much of the afternoon testing his strength and reflexes. They started by tossing an apple back and forth. It took ten tries before Geralt managed to catch the apple without fumbling, or worse, missing entirely. His mood soured quickly as they worked, but he refused to stop. He grumbled about how slow and weak he was, even though he seemed no slower than Jaskier. The problem was that he was used to lightening-quick reflexes and impossibly sharp senses. He had no idea how to react like a normal human. Sure enough, as he began to adapt to the new way his body moved, he began to improve. By the time Jaskier left him to play, he was able to reliably catch the apple with one hand. 

Downstairs, a crowd had begun to form. A local bard was warming up the crowd, giving Jaskier time to assess the mood. As he nursed a pint and pondered what songs to play, two men watched him from across the tavern. Both were large men and heavily armed. Jaskier watched them out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to have noticed. When they advanced, he turned to slip away, only to walk right into a third muscled, heavily armed man. 

"You the witcher's bard?"

Jaskier huffed. As much as he liked being associated with Geralt, now was not the time. "Honestly, you write a song or twelve about someone and everyone thinks you belong to them."

The man pushed Jaskier against the wall, pressing him in place with two hands on his chest. "Where is he?"

An image of Geralt fumbling with an apple flashed through Jaskier's mind. "I don't know."

"Listen. It's a crowded tavern. I don't want to make a fuss. But there's nothing saying you and I can't take a little walk, understand?"

Jaskier considered his options. He had no chance of taking three men in a fight, and no one seemed to want to jump to his rescue. He would have to get out of this with his wits. He crumpled his face up into a mask of fear and sniffled loudly. 

"I don't! Someone hit me, and when I woke up he was gone!"

The three men exchanged looks. "There was no one?"

"Well," Jaskier said, "There was this one drunk fellow who kept insisting he was the witcher. As if I wouldn't know what my witcher looks like! His eyes were green, and his hair a sort of sandy brown, almost blond, and he could barely walk in a straight line."

"What happened to him?"

"He tried to steal our horse, so I stabbed him. Even if he's dead, Geralt wouldn't want his horse in the hands of someone like that."

As Jaskier spoke, a vicious grin spread across his captor's face. He let go of Jaskier, though he did not give him space to leave. "You stabbed him?"

"Just once!" Jaskier said, feigning regret and grief. "Well, cut, really, on his right arm -- he was trying to grab me, you see. I didn't want to hurt him, but he wouldn't leave me alone. I gave him directions to a healer in the east before I left."

One of the men started to laugh. Jaskier looked between them, not needing to feign the uncertainty and fear on his face. "Is something funny?"

"You, bard, just made our lives a hell of a lot easier," the man closest to Jaskier said. He tossed him a small but heavy coin purse and winked. "For your services. Not everyone survives stabbing a witcher." 

Jaskier stayed pressed against the wall until he was confident the men had left. Once he felt safe, he peeked inside the purse. To his astonishment, it appeared full of genuine coin, more than Jaskier expected to make in tips that night. Tucking the purse away, he pushed his emotions to the side and strutted up on stage. He had an audience to woo.

Halfway through the performance, Geralt came downstairs. It took Jaskier a moment to recognise him, but no one else could match his ability to brood. He sat in a corner with the hood of his cloak pulled up, hiding his face and making him look suitably unapproachable. The sight brought a genuine smile to Jaskier's face for the first time that evening. He finished his set with a rousing rendition of his latest hit before going to join him. He stopped by the bar first, picking up two meals and two ales.

"So, what did you think?"

"Catchy" Geralt admitted. "Inaccurate, but catchy."

Jaskier beamed at him, but quickly sobered when he remembered the men from earlier. "Some men were looking for you earlier. Mercenaries, I think."

Geralt grunted. "What did they do?"

"They asked me for information. I told them I didn't know about the witcher, but that I'd sent some bastard pretending to be him off east."

"Quick thinking, " Geralt said. It was almost a compliment, so Jaskier decided to take it was one. 

"Also, I told them I stabbed you."

Geralt raised his eyebrows. 

"You wouldn't leave me alone, of course, and you wanted Roach, but I wasn't going to let a stranger take her. They gave me coin."

Geralt insisted on inspecting the coin, but no matter how much he squinted, he could not see anything suspicious about it. If it was bewitched, his medallion was no help. It had been humming non-stop since the spell had been cast, and likely would not stop until Geralt was restored to his natural state. 

The next morning, Jaskier woke up to find Geralt still fast asleep. He huffed out a soft little chuckle and exited the room on tiptoe. Once outside, he took a walk around town, checking every noticeboard he came across. Only two had monster contacts on them, which Jaskier used to make note of what areas around town to avoid. He did, however, find a notice asking for day labourers at the lumber mill at the edge of town. After a few moments deliberation, Jaskier took the contract. They needed the coin, and physical work would be a chance for Geralt to learn his new limits in a non-fatal scenario. 

He found Geralt in the stables, trying to tempt Roach with an apple. Roach was having none of it. She plainly did not recognise him and was showing her typical distrust of strangers. Jaskier walked down the aisle, humming as he did so, and wrapped an arm around Geralt's shoulders.

"I know he looks a bit different, dearest Roach, but deep down, he's still the same brute we love and trust. If I can put up with him looking like this, you can put up with him, too."

Roach snorted, and Geralt pulled away from him. "You're up early."

"You slept late," Jaskier countered. "So I went and found you a job."

It took an hour of arguing, but in the end Jaskier won. He escorted Geralt to the lumber mill and left him there while Jaskier himself started busking on a busy street corner. In the late afternoon he wandered back to the lumber mill to collect his friend. He found the workers wrapping up work for the day, talking and joking and slapping each other on the back. Geralt, to his amusement, was the smallest in the group by far. When Jaskier showed up to claim him, they greeted him with a smile and gave Geralt a friendly slap on the back. 

"If you decide to stick around, you and your friend are welcome any time. He's better value than he looks."

"There's a reason I keep him around," Jaskier said with a wink, and whisked him away to the tavern. 

They drank and ate, Jaskier chatting away the evening until it was time to perform. He patted Geralt on the shoulder as he went up, letting his fingers linger until he was out of reach. He sang for two hours, making enough in tips to cover the cost of their room for the night. He walked back to Geralt with a swagger in his hips and a twinkle in his eye. 

"It's always nice to feel appreciated."

"Hmm," Geralt said, and made to stand up. When he did, a wince stole over his face and he exhaled sharply. After a moment, he pushed on, but his expression was too carefully blank for Jaskier to be fooled. A grin spread across Jaskier's face, which he hid behind one hand. 

"You're sore," he said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. Geralt grunted, but he did not argue. Snickering to himself, Jaskier shepherded himself up the stairs. "Do you want my help?"

Instead of words, Geralt's answer was a hopeful sounding grumble. At Jaskier's urging, he stripped down to his underthings and lay chest-down on the bed. Humming to himself, Jaskier retrieved the lightly scented chamomile oil he kept on hand for just this purpose and knelt on the bed beside Geralt. His heart lurched in his chest when he saw there was not even a single scar left on his skin. His eyes roamed over his lower back, which ought to have long parallel lines from a werewolf attack cutting across it. There were no teeth marks in his right shoulder, and in place of the shiny, misshapen knot of flesh on his left, there was nothing but smooth skin. But as he stared, he noticed something new that made him smile. 

"You have freckles!" he exclaimed, tracing his finger between the light brown dots scattered over his shoulders and upper back. After a moment he remembered himself and drizzled the oil over Geralt's shoulders. 

Jaskier was not gentle when he pressed the meat of his palm into his shoulders and back. When he found a knot of tension he worked the spot over and over, even when it made Geralt's hands clench into fists. He worked every point of his body, from his feet to the highest part of his neck. By the time he finished, Geralt lay limp and relaxed against the bed. Had he been able to, Jaskier had no doubt he would have been purring. Still humming quietly to himself, he pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. 

"Just gonna lay here a bit," Geralt mumbled. Jaskier suppressed a smile, but gave into the urge to run his fingers through his hair. Human or not, it was rare for Geralt to relax enough to let Jaskier touch like this. After a few minutes, Geralt began to snore, which Jaskier took as a cue to prepare himself for bed. 

The next morning, they returned to both the blacksmith and tailor. Geralt was silent as he tried on his armour, testing his range of motion and agility. Once he had put it through its paces, he gave a small nod to the blacksmith and left. Jaskier beamed. 

"He loves it, " he assured the blacksmith, before following Geralt out into the street.

The tailor was their next stop. She gasped at the sight of Geralt in his new armor, calling him 'honey' and asking if he couldn't leave the violence to his brother. This last line she delivered gesturing to Jaskier. His mouth dropped in horror, and he shook his head frantically. She'd said as much last time, but he'd been too distracted by Geralt's discomfort to notice. 

"Oh, we are so not brothers," Jaskier said quickly. "The opposite, in fact. Definitely not related in any way. Weren't even born in the same village."

"Or the same century," Geralt muttered, but the tailor missed his comment under a deluge of apologies. They didn't manage to escape for another fifteen minutes, but when they did it was with their new outfit tucked away amongst their belongings. 

They then left civilisation behind them and took to the road once more. There was still one trek to make before reaching the town with the griffin problem. Jaskier could only hope they got there in time to catch a witcher.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: this chapter includes sexual content, negative self-talk, mentions of self-harm and mentions of extreme physical pain. Despite this, I'd still call most of it fluff.

"So, Geralt, now that you've had your own up-close-and-personal experience with humanity, what do you think?"

"Hm," Geralt said, staring at Jaskier from across the fire they had built. He took a moment to dip his chunk of rabbit in the spice blend Jaskier had made, took a bite, and chewed in silence for a long time. 

"Hard to say. I don't think it worked properly. Humans have emotions, but I don't feel any different than usual."

A muscle twitched beneath Jaskier's left eye. He could feel a headache coming on, and he found himself considering the merits of throttling Geralt with his bare hands. It was a mystery to Jaskier how Geralt had kept himself alive for so long, because he was quite possibly the stupidest man he had ever met. He put his mug of ale down and tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice when he replied, 

"Geralt, dearest, have you considered that maybe, just maybe, you've had emotions all along?"

A small frown tugged on the corners of Geralt's lips. "Witchers don't - "

"Bullshit," Jaskier snapped. "Don't you dare try that line on me. I'm not some foolish farmer half convinced you're going to eat his children. I know you. I know how you look when you're swallowing back your rage. I know how miserable you are if someone gets hurt before you can save them and how pleased you are when people actually thank you. I know the stupid little grin you get after telling one of your dreadful jokes. And I know this kind of talk makes you uncomfortable, but I don't care. I hate whoever taught you this. I shall be having words with Vesemir when I see him again, that much I can promise."

Silence descended over the camp-site. Belatedly, Jaskier realised his heart was hammering and his face was flushed. Geralt stared at him as if he'd just declared his intent to visit the moon. Embarrassment crept up Jaskier's neck, and he was about to cringe and apologise when he revised his assessment of Geralt's stare. He wasn't judging Jaskier. He was attempting to process what had been said, as if the idea of having emotions was beyond his comprehension. Possibly it was. How many other people in Geralt's life openly acknowledged it? He had a horrible feeling his only companion in this was Yennefer. 

"If that's true," Geralt said, then trailed off. After another pause he added. "Hm."

"Hmm?" Jaskier echoed, raising an eyebrow. 

"Gonna have to think about this," Geralt grunted. It was not the response Jaskier had hoped for, but it was better than he had expected. He nodded, and resolved to give Geralt time and space to think about it. 

The next morning, they lingered at their camp for two hours so Geralt could train. He worked through drill after drill, practicing footwork and swordplay and evasive manoeuvres. Even to Jaskier's untrained eyes, he looked slow and clumsy compared to his usual grace. When his sword ought to have snapped up like lightning, it crawled up as if Geralt were draggingn it through honey. When he moved from one form to the next, Jaskier could see the intermediary movements instead of just a blur. Sweat dripped from his face as he worked. By the time Geralt was done, his arms were quaking from the effort of holding up his sword. When Jaskier opened his mouth to ask if he was okay, he was met with a glare so venomous that he recoiled. He shut his mouth and kept his worries to himself.

Training became a part of their daily ritual, and while Geralt improved, it soon became clear he would never match his usual level of skill. He was bound by the same limits as any other human. After two more days on the road, he insisted they search for alchemy ingredients. Jaskier watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what he was up to. 

"I thought witcher potions were dangerous for humans."

"Potions aren't the only thing I can make," Geralt said grimly. 

"That's ominous. I don't think I like the sound of that," Jaskier rambled. "Maybe we should leave the deadly plant juices alone for now?"

But Geralt did not listen. That night, he set hunched over his mortar and pestle, grinding together saltpeter, hellebore petals, and other nasty things Jaskier couldn’t name. Every now and then, the fire crackled and flared. The burst of light ought to have made golden eyes gleam in the dark, but to Jaskier's discomfort, they remained stubbornly lifeless blue.

The road led them westward, winding through northern Temeria. Before long they came to a crossroads at the border of a dark forest. Four roads led away from the crossroads, pointing in each of the cardinal directions. The northern road led to the Pontar valley, while the southern road hugged the edge of the forest until it turned back northwest. The road west ran into the forest. They stopped at the crossroads for several seconds before Geralt took a deep breath and marched into the forest. Jaskier tagged after him.

"Geralt, are you sure this is wise? I know it's faster, but you're, well, human, and you know what you normally say about humans going into a forest like this. It’s not Brokilon, I know, but there are reasons people avoid this place."

"I can still fight."

"Humans, yes, but last time we came this way, we ran into a leshen . You do remember what a leshen is, yes? You remember the part about how you wanted me to stay very far away because it could crush me in one hit, yes?"

"Yeah."

"And you remember that you're just as vulnerable as me right now? Because if you get yourself killed, I will tell everyone how stupid your death was. Everyone. You'll be the laughing-stock of the continent. The only person not laughing will be me, because I'll be too traumatised from watching my best friend and dearest companion get walloped to death by a cranky tree."

"Are you done?"

Jaskier considered for a moment, before shaking his head and continuing to rant. He did not stop for a full hour, by which point Geralt looked to be near the end of this rope. When he stopped, silence descended on the pair. After a few seconds, Geralt let out a heartfelt, "Thank the gods."

"Oh, fuck you," Jaskier grumbled, and they lapsed into silence. 

They set up camp that night without incident, and the next. Jaskier's spirits began to lift. There was less than a day's travel left in the forest. Maybe, just maybe, they would make it out unscathed. 

The ground beneath them rumbled. A mass of red and green burst from the ground in front of them, resolving into a writhing plant twice Jaskier's height. It was crowned with a single, massive flower with petals as red as blood. As Jaskier stared, a thorny vine whipped towards him. Only a slash from Geralt's silver sword spared him. 

"Take Roach and get behind something," he snarled. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out several round metal balls. He tossed two towards the monster and then dived away. When the balls hit, they exploded into flame. The conflagration quickly covered the monster, but it did not fall dead. It writhed and fired a succession of sharp little seeds at Geralt. He rolled to the side, but was not quick enough. 

To the end of his days, Jaskier would never forget the agonised shout Geralt made when one of the seeds cut his arm clean open. He fell to one knee. When he tried to stand a moment later his leg buckled beneath him. On his second try, he made it to his feet. He tossed more bombs at the monster and hefted his silver sword, taking a shaky step forward. Before he could advance more than a couple of paces, the monster disintegrated into ash.

Threat dealt with, Geralt fell to his knees, breathing heavily. Jaskier rushed to his side. 

"Thought I told you to run."

"Name one time I've listened to that," Jaskier said 

"Idiot. Archespore venom is fatal to humans."

For a moment, Jaskier's world went white. As his vision crept back in, he noticed there was a ringing in his ears. A moment later, he realised he was on his knees. His hands trembled as he held them out towards Geralt, and he made no attempt to hide the tears falling freely down his face. 

"Jaskier," Geralt said, reaching out with his uninjured arm and grasping his forearm. "Jaskier, listen to me. A full dose is fatal, but this is only a scratch. I'm not dying."

The words stunned him into silence. It was only then he realised he'd been rambling, chanting "no" and pleading with the gods to not let Geralt die. When Geralt's words finally penetrated the fog of grief and panic in his mind, he let out a wail and threw himself forward. He wrapped his arms tightly around Geralt and buried his face in his neck, sobbing openly. A moment later, Geralt's good arm wrapped around him. 

"I thought you were going to die," Jaskier admitted. A moment later, he recoiled. "Your arm! Stay put, I'll get the medical supplies."

He wiped his face clean as he scurried over to Roach, then dashed back to Geralt with supplies in hand. Geralt immediately began rooting through the selection of human-safe potions and poultices they kept on hand for Jaskier. Once he found what he was looking for, he picked it up and knocked it back in one shot. He grimaced after. 

"Fuck. That tastes worse than swallow."

"Because drowner brains are so appealing. What did you take?" Jaskier asked. He cleaned Geralt's wound as gently as he could, first with water, then with vodka. 

"Archespore antidote. Always kept it on hand in case. You never were good at staying out of the way. "

"Says you, " Jaskier grumbled. To his relief, the wound did not seem to need stitches,so he bandaged it tightly and sat back on his heels. 

"Ready to go?"

Geralt nodded, tried to stand, and promptly collapsed. 

"Venom targets the neural system. I can't -" Geralt broke off, grimacing as his arm spasmed. "Fuck."

"Let's take a rest. Give it time for the antidote to kick in."

And so they set up camp in the middle of the road, a few meters on from the ashen remains of the monster. Jaskier fussed over Geralt endlessly, checking his wound and forcing several cups of willow bark tea down his throat. Once Geralt was capable of holding himself still, he chose to meditate until dusk. He grimaced as he shifted out of the trance.

"Damn, humans heal slowly."

"You don't say?" Jaskier said, and handed him a wooden bowl of stew. He took out with a grunt and began to eat. Jaskier helped himself to the second portion of stew and ate, much more slowly than his companion. 

They spent the night and left early the next morning, Jaskier on foot and Geralt on Roach. Roach was not at all happy with a stranger on her back, but Jaskier distracted her and rewarded her with little treats throughout the day. 

They left the forest in the early afternoon, stepping out into the sunlight. Jaskier stretched his arms out around them and turned his face up to the sun, enjoying the light and warmth. Even Geralt cheered at the sight of the sun, sitting up a little straighter on Roach's back. Not only was the sun pleasant, leaving the forest marked an important landmark. The town with the griffin contact was just two days walk away. 

As they approached the town, they came across an old stone bridge. Makeshift barricades barred the way across, and three armed men lounged on top of the stacked boxes. They stood up as they approached, and the leader offered a mocking bow. 

"Good day to you, gentle sirs. If you seek passage across this bridge, you must pay the tax of fifty crowns, directly to the bridge's maintainers and protectors -- that is, us."

"Fifty crowns!" Jaskier spluttered

"Each."

"What happened to Old Basalt? He never charged this much. "

"The savage troll that robbed innocent travellers has been dispatched by yours truly," the leader bragged. "Now pay up or bugger off."

Jaskier's heart sank. There was no way they could afford passage, and the nearest detour would add three full days to their journey. That was more than enough time for a witcher to arrive, kill the griffin and be on his way, before they ever had a chance to ask him for help. 

"You're going to let us pass for free," Geralt said. He waved his hand through the air as he did so, pulling his fingers into a simple sigil. Jaskier could pinpoint the exact moment the sign took effect. The three men shook their heads, blinking stupidly and staring at each other. 

"Right you are, sir."

Jaskier's jaw dropped. It was not the first time he had seen Geralt take control of someone with a witcher sign, but that was part of being a witcher. It hadn't occurred to him that Geralt may have kept the ability to use his signs when he had lost everything else. He grinned up at Geralt and promptly blanched. Blood streamed freely from his nose, and he had turned as white as a sheet. It was all Jaskier could do not to cry out in concern, but he could not risk alerting the hoodwinked bandits that something was amiss.

Once they were safely away from the bridge, Geralt slumped forward in the saddle. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. On foot beside him, all Jaskier could do was pat his thigh and murmur reassuring words. 

"Fuck," Geralt gasped. "That -- fuck. Really? This is pathetic."

"You cast one of your signs, that's not pathetic, that's --"

"You have no idea how little stamina axii consumes," Geralt snapped. "It's a hundred burpees, two hundred at most."

The mere mention of burpees was enough to make Jaskier cringe. He'd briefly tried the exercise while at Kaer Morhen and had given up after three, while the witchers had breezed through a thousand each. 

With Jaskier's help, Geralt dismounted and slid shakily to the ground. An hour passed before Geralt had colour back in his cheeks. While he still trembled, he insisted he was fine to continue, so continue they did. 

They reached the township around nightfall. The guard standing near the entrance to the village scolded them for travelling in such a small group, telling him it was a miracle they hadn't been attacked by the griffin. 

"No witcher has been through yet?" Jaskier asked. 

"One of those damn Cats came through, asking more than twice the notice price," the guard said, and spat on the ground to show his contempt. "We sent him on his way."

"Ah, well, so it happens. Hopefully the next to come through is from a more respectable school," Jaskier said, and pulled Geralt away before he could start an argument. 

At the inn, they managed to secure a free room for Jaskier's services as a bard and Geralt's in constructing the new stables. It was a worse deal than Jaskier had hoped, but with their coin purse feeling lighter by the day, they were in no position to haggle. Geralt retired to the room, while Jaskier put aside his fatigue and pulled out his lute. The tavern guests cheered at the promise of entertainment. By the time he was on his third song, most guests were singing along with him, chanting and stamping their feet in time to the rhythm. Their energy reinvigorated Jaskier, and he played late into the night. When he returned to their room to find only one bed, he did not think twice about falling in with Geralt. Despite the unfamiliar snoring and such from his companion, he fell asleep instantly. 

He woke alone, late in the morning. He allowed himself a few moments to luxuriate in the comfort of a real bed before venturing out in search of breakfast. He spent the morning exploring the town and paid a visit to the village alderman, explaining he was very keen on meeting whatever witcher showed up to deal with the griffin problem. The alderman agreed to send any witcher his way, and Jaskier thanked him profusely. 

When he visited Geralt in the afternoon, he found Geralt had been reassigned. Instead of building, he had been put to work in the stables with the horses. When Jaskier found him, he was tending to a large stallion belonging to a passing knight, murmuring softly to the beast as he worked to remove a stone from its shoe. Jaskier stopped a few paces away and watched. It was a better role for him than building, and Jaskier was annoyed that he had not thought of it himself. There was even a small smile on Geralt's face as he worked. A flood of affection filled Jaskier's chest at the sight, and he allowed himself several moments to watch and covet the expression before clearing his throat. 

"Lunch? There's a bakery nearby."

"I need to finish this first," Geralt said, so Jaskier leaned against the wall and waited for him to finish. They each bought a pie from the bakery and sat together in the garden behind the inn. The air was sweetly perfumed by nearby honeysuckle and lavender, and Jaskier fought back a wave of disgust at how horribly mundane it was. He found no peace in safety and comfort when it came at such a price. As much as he loathed sleeping on the ground and eating nothing but unseasoned rabbit for weeks on end, he would give up this peaceful little town with its pretty little garden in a heartbeat if it returned Geralt to his usual self. 

"Jaskier. I've been thinking."

"That's a rarity, " Jaskier teased, the words falling out without thought. He forced himself to look at Geralt and was startled to find his blue eyes fixed on Jaskier's face. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly at Jaskier's joke.

"Mm. Especially when it comes to this. I think you were right when you said I have feelings."

"Oh, was I?" Jaskier said. He opened his mouth to launch into a long, mocking monologue, but something about the look on Geralt's face stopped him. He looked almost nervous, and his cheeks flushed faintly pink. Jaskier closed his mouth and examined him, trying to guess what Geralt was getting at. Whatever it was, it was clearly not easy for him. When he spoke, the words came haltingly, filled with pauses as he grappled for words or courage. 

"We were taught it was just a somatic reaction, but it's not. This is the only thing that hasn't changed. I'm practically deaf and blind, but my feelings haven't gotten any stronger. They're the same as they've always been."

"Well. At least some good has come from this wretched situation," Jaskier said. Geralt hummed. He looked at Jaskier, then said, 

"I was ignoring it because I didn't think my emotions were real, but I was wrong. I have feelings. For you. I have for a long time."

Jaskier stared at him. "I'm sorry, I must be going mad. You're...?"

"Mm. In love with you, yeah. Have been for a while now. Few years, at least, " Geralt said. Jaskier gaped at him. 

"Years," he echoed faintly. How long had Jaskier spent pining after Geralt? He could scarcely remember a time in their friendship where he had not at least lusted after him. That was to say nothing of the months and years spent wrestling guilt and elation over stolen moments of intimacy, such as holding Geralt's hand when he was injured and sleeping, or the warmth of his body when pressed together in a narrow bed in an inn.

"If - "

"You're telling me we wasted _years_ ," Jaskier said, and kissed him. Geralt made a startled sound against his mouth. His momentum pushed Geralt backwards, forcing him to put out an arm against the ground to balance his weight. Throwing propriety out the window, Jaskier took the opportunity to crawl into his lap. When he pulled off, he made eye contact with Geralt and grinned. 

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

"Uh," Geralt said, and he glanced to the side, avoiding Jaskier's gaze. "I, uh, hm."

"Hm?" Jaskier asked. Ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest, he put one finger under Geralt's chin and used it to tilt his face up towards him. 

"Lust smells sweet and salty, like fresh cut grass and fruit. I didn't realise humans couldn't smell it at all."

It took a few seconds for the meaning to take shape in Jaskier's mind. When he did, he gaped at Geralt. 

"You -- you can smell when I'm horny?"

"Not now, obviously," Geralt grumbled. He sniffed the air, then leaned closer to Jaskier's neck and tried again. He pulled back and crinkled his nose in disgust. "I can't smell anything. Your voice is flat and your eyes are dull and when you're asleep I keep thinking you're dead. It's horrible."

A wry smile twisted Jaskier's lips. "Such a romantic."

"There are shades of blue I've only seen in your eyes. I miss them," Geralt said, and Jaskier's heart skipped a beat. And here he'd thought he was the poet. The words he'd taken for insults had been beautiful, backhanded compliments. 

"We'll fix you."

At that, Geralt gave a soft hum. After a few seconds, he said, 

"At least now there's something to do to pass the time."

He kissed Jaskier, then disappeared off to work. Jaskier spent the rest of the afternoon walking laps of the town in a blissful daze. He was in that delightful stage of composing where he put no particular effort or thought into what he was doing, instead letting lyrics and tunes bubble up with his emotions. His feelings crept into his set that night, and he found himself favouring sweet (and bawdy) ballads over his usual tall tales. 

That night, when he retired to their room, he found Geralt sitting in bed, fast asleep. He sat propped up against the headboard with a book folded in his lap, his fingers still marking the page where he had dozed off. Jaskier hid a smile. He was careful to make no sound as he prepared for the night. It was only when the bed dipped under his weight that Geralt startled awake. He reached for his sword out of habit, then stopped.

"Just you."

"Just me," Jaskier said, and smiled at him. Geralt blushed. Chuckling softly, Jaskier ran his fingers lightly over the pink in his cheeks. "I never would've guessed you'd blush so much."

The pink in his cheeks deepened. "I don't blush."

"Not when you're you. But now, dear heart, you're blushing quite charmingly. And until you are restored to normal, I must take my pleasure where I can, " Jaskier said. To his delight, Geralt blushed yet further at the epithet, and Jaskier made a mental note to use them as often as possible going forward. 

"Hmm. I can think of better ways," Geralt said. He tangled his fingers in Jaskier's hair and pulled him into a kiss. One kiss turned into two, then six, before Jaskier lost count. They stripped, and when Jaskier looked back, he found Geralt staring at him with open hunger. He exhaled, making a soft sound in the back of his throat, and pulled Jaskier into him. He trailed open mouthed kisses and small bites down his neck. Jaskier gasped at the first press of teeth against tender skin. Geralt pulled back immediately, his hands hovering anxiously above Jaskier's body. 

"Are you alright?"

"I'm good," Jaskier said, and his voice came out a notch lower than usual. "Really good."

"You're sure?" Geralt asked, and Jaskier groaned. 

"Geralt, please. Don't make me beg."

Geralt's eyes widened. "Oh."

He returned to his task with renewed enthusiasm, leaving a trail of tiny bruises over his skin from his teeth. Jaskier moaned and panted the entire time. He kept up a running narration (mostly consisting of "fuck" and "yes" and "Geralt"), interrupted by little gasps and moans. Geralt exhaled and ran his fingers through the thick hair on his chest. When Geralt shifted to slide a knee between his thighs, he ground against him and whimpered at the friction. They continued in that vein. Jaskier basked in the feeling of slow, lazy pleasure, in the simple pleasure of being able to touch Geralt and feel his hands against his skin. Then, apropos of nothing, Geralt made a startled sound and spilled. Both he and Jaskier stared at the mess in surprise.

“This, uh, doesn’t usually happen.”

Jaskier felt himself smile, and he kissed Geralt’s cheek. “It’s alright, dear heart, plenty of men - “

“No, Jaskier, this really doesn’t happen,” Geralt interrupted. A familiar undercurrent of frustration crept into his voice, and his upper lip curled in disgust. After a moment, he flopped back against the bed. “Fuck. Humans have to wait, don’t they?”

“You don’t?” Jaskier asked, curious. 

“It takes a couple of rounds, usually. Sometimes more,” Geralt said. “And it takes more. Whores complain about how long it takes. That wasn't even - fuck. Should've taken a lot more than that.”

All Jaskier managed at that was a strangled sound. He kissed Geralt hungrily, grinding against his thigh. At the reminder that his pleasure was still waiting, Geralt coaxed him to lie down and shifted down Jaskier’s body. He settled between Jaskier’s thighs and pressed his cheek to the soft skin. As Jaskier watched, he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then grimaced and opened them.

“May I?”

“No,” Jaskier said, “not unless you explain what that look on your face is all about.”

“You don’t smell right. Can’t be sure you want me,” Geralt said, in spite of the evidence in front of his face. Jaskier huffed out a small laugh and reached down to tangle his fingers in his dark curls.

“I want you, Geralt, always.”

The encouragement was enough for Geralt to wrap his hand around Jaskier’s cock. He moaned at the touch, unwilling to give Geralt a single reason to doubt. Geralt leaned in with a look of intense focus and licked him. A flicker of surprise passed over his face, but before Jaskier could ask what had caused it, Geralt wrapped his mouth around his cock. Any thought of reassuring Geralt flew out the window as pleasure wiped Jaskier’s mind blank. He babbled, spouting filth and affection in equal measure. When he came, Geralt choked on the sudden spurt of liquid in his mouth. He pulled back, looking horrified, and rasped,

“I can’t even suck cock right like this?”

Despite himself, Jaskier laughed and pulled him in for a kiss. “I don’t know what you thinks is right, but you can count me satisfied.”

Despite Geralt's irritation at his limitations, became part of their nightly ritual. Jaskier delighted in finding new ways to please Geralt, taking them both by surprise at what areas were (or weren't) sensitive. Stamina remained a challenge for Geralt, and he refused to listen to Jaskier's assurances that it was no issue. 

"What if I'm stuck like this?" he asked one night. The idea made Jaskier's stomach turn in disgust, but he kissed Geralt's temple and ran his fingers through his brown curls. 

"Then you and I shall find somewhere to retire, and I will learn to love blue as dearly as I do yellow."

Geralt stared at him for a few seconds before leaning against him. He pressed the entire length of his body against Jaskier's own, seeking as much skin on skin contact as possible. 

"I don't want to stay like this, but I don't want to lose you if I don't have a choice."

"Geralt," Jaskier said firmly, and tilted his head to look him in the eye. "I love you. I'm going to keep on loving you into the day I die, whether you're a witcher or a human or something else entirely." 

The small sound that escaped Geralt's throat sounded entirely involuntary. He lunged at Jaskier, kissing him for all he was worth. He then moved his mouth elsewhere, kissing and biting all over his body. By the time he wrapped his mouth around his length, Jaskier was on the brink of begging.

A loud thud signified the door flying open and crashing into the wall. Jaskier yelped, first from the surprise, then from the feeling of Geralt jerking back. He reached for his sword while Jaskier stared at the intruder in disbelief. 

"Leave the bard alone," the intruder snarled. He was clad from head to toe in black armor, and a silver sword was levelled at Geralt. Jaskier jumped to his feet and put himself between the two of them, holding his hands up with his palms facing out. 

"Lambert, while I'm very glad you're here, I'd be even happier if you'd stop waving that sword at us."

Lambert's eyes narrowed. He flicked his fingers through the air and said, "Get behind me, Jaskier."

Jaskier took three steps towards him. Life on the Path had trained him to listen to witchers, and after all, Lambert was very clever. Listening to Lambert was the right thing to do. 

A moment later, he realized what he was doing and froze on the spot. He huffed loudly and stomped his foot. With one hand on his hip, he pointed at Lambert and made several wordless, offended sounds before he managed to get an argument together. 

"How dare you try that on me! As if I’d be ‘weak minded’ enough to fall for that. And here I thought we were friends, Lambert, and you go and use axii on me. I cannot believe you’ve done this."

"Yeah, well, I can't believe you'd be dumb enough to fall into bed with that," Lambert said with a nod at Geralt. Jaskier turned and tutted when he saw Geralt still holding his sword. He pushed it down firmly. If it came to a fight, he had no doubt who would win. 

" _That_ is your brother," Jaskier said. Silence held for several long seconds. Then, slowly, Lambert held his hand out for Jaskier and spoke in a horribly gentle tone. 

"Jaskier, trust me. I don’t know what you see, but you need to step away and come over here. Geralt would want you to listen to me."

"Your father beat the shit out of you," Geralt said. Jaskier closed his eyes, waiting for them both to be cut down, but Geralt continued. "You hate Vesemir, but you'd do anything for his approval. And eight winters ago, we got blackout drunk and borrowed dresses from Yen's wardrobe. We looked great, but that didn't stop Yen from making the rest of winter hell for me. I won't fight. You can put me in dimeritium or silver shackles if you need to, as long as you don’t hurt Jaskier."

Lambert did not lower his sword, but his eyes widened in disbelief. "How? What are you?"

"Cursed. Pissed off the wrong mage. Came here hoping you or Eskel would follow the same rumours about a griffin that we did."

In all honesty, while they had said "a witcher", both Jaskier and Geralt had hoped for Eskel, or even Vesemir. Eskel was the most level headed of the witchers; the most likely to help, and the least likely to take offence. Vesemir had centuries of experience and a special interest in curses. But Lambert had never been happy to be a witcher. He had long resented the choices that had been taken from him and the pain he had been put through. There was no guarantee he would react to Geralt's situation with empathy. But he did at last lower his sword, though he did not yet put it away.

"Medallion's been buzzing since I walked in," he said reluctantly. "And - aw, crap."

He turned to face the door, not lowering his sword. A moment later the innkeeper stepped forward, armed with a cleaver. The builders who worked with Geralt stood behind him, armed with pitchforks and hammers and anything else they could get their hands on. 

"I don't know what your business is here, witcher, but you'll leave these nice young lads alone."

"Gentlemen, please, this is all a misunderstanding," Jaskier said. He stepped closer to Lambert and put a hand on his shoulder, ignoring his vicious snarl and order to get back. This was a routine Jaskier had pulled a thousand times before. And while Geralt may be more amenable to his methods than Lambert, Jaskier was not going to back down from a challenge. Wearing nothing but the most charming smile he could muster, he said,

"Lambert is a dear friend of ours - and we, I must confess, have not been entirely honest with you. We came here seeking him, hoping he would hear the same rumours as we did. For you see, my beloved and I have been struck by a terrible curse."

"I know you think well of witchers, young master, but he drew a sword on you, and on our Geralt. You know as well as I do our Geralt’s no monster, even if he are a bit odd."

"Lambert drew his sword to protect us, for he can sense the great evil that is upon us. He was putting his sword away as you came in as he realized the truth of the matter. Let me tell you, I have never been happier to be interrupted when lovemaking. Without the witcher's help, I fear my beloved shall perish before the month is out. I’ve scarcely slept a wink since that horrid witch cursed us, for I do not know what moment together shall be our last. And should the curse claim him, I shall not be long for this world, for what reason would I have to linger?"

By the time Jaskier was done, his audience looked ready to weep. He tugged on Lambert's arm to lower the sword. When that didn't work, he whispered it as an order. His voice was so quiet even he could not hear it, but he had no doubt a witcher would hear. With obvious reluctance, Lambert lowered his weapon. The men at the door began to disperse, and the innkeeper had the decency to look embarrassed. 

"If that's the case, we're sincerely sorry, young master. If there's aught we can do to save Master Geralt, you just say the word."

"A hot meal and a drink for our witcher friend would go a long way," Jaskier said, and the innkeeper agreed. 

When they were at last alone again, Geralt said in a strangled tone, "They were trying to protect me. From Lambert."

"If only they'd been there last winter, he might not have been able to shave your eyebrows when you got drunk," Jaskier snickered. He picked his clothes off the floor and started to dress. Whenever he came across Geralt’s clothes, he tossed them at him. When he turned around, both Geralt and Lambert were staring at each other in open horror. 

"Never been on this side of a mob before," Geralt admitted. "Can't say I'm a fan."

"Now you know how I feel," Jaskier said. "Remember Yantra? Where they thought you were trying to steal my virtue? As if that ship hadn't sailed long before I met you."

"Most would consider bedding a witcher a new low."

"Oh! Then I look forward to it," Jaskier said with a wink. "I do love exploring new levels of debauchery."

"Gods. I can't believe this, but I miss when you two weren't together," Lambert groaned. "At least watching Geralt sulk was funny."

"Asshole."

"What Geralt means is we shall be on our best behaviour if you help us," Jaskier said, stepping between the others so he could hide the glare on Geralt's face. He didn't think Geralt would cope with Lambert teasing him about how ineffective his usual intimidation techniques were. 

"Right. Tell me everything."

The story took three whole hours. They left out no detail, knowing that even the smallest detail could be significant on a hunt. They took their supper and ale in the room and talked long into the night. When Geralt yawned, Lambert stared him in astonishment. Geralt glared back at him, his upper lip curling into a feral snarl and showing off his blunt, human incisors. 

"You got a problem?"

"Not even the bard is tired yet."

"The bard is exhausted," Jaskier said, even though it was a blatant lie. "I'm also used to it. Geralt's still adjusting to being human."

Both witchers flinched at the word 'human', but they let Jaskier shepherd Geralt into bed. After some debate, Lambert set up a bedroll on the floor and ordered them not to leave the room. Despite bristling at being ordered about, the implicit concern was enough for Jaskier to acquiesce. Until Geralt was returned to normal, he suspected neither he nor Geralt would be allowed out of Lambert's sight. Any fears he had about Lambert’s reaction faded away. It would not be easy for him, but Jaskier trusted that Lambert would keep them safe come hell or high water. 

He roused them at dawn the next morning, already ready to go. They were on the road within the hour. As they left the stables, one of the men that had worked with Geralt rushed up to them. 

"You didn't give us much warning, but we did whip around, got you this," he said, and thrust a horse brush into Geralt's hands. The bristles were made of the finest materials, and the wooden handle was oak. The name "Roach" was carved into the back. Geralt said nothing. He stared at the gift in disbelief, his eyes wide with astonishment. Thankfully, his friend did not take offence. He laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and said to Jaskier, 

"You take care of our Geralt. And if you're looking for a place to settle down once you're done with your witcher, remember us. Farewell!"

Lambert made a disgusted noise. "Really, Geralt? Never would've picked you to be making friends. The bard's rubbing off on you."

Geralt was quiet until they left the town. After a long pause, he said, 

"I didn't do anything differently."

"You didn't show up dripping with griffin blood and carrying a severed head. That tends to leave an impression on people," Jaskier said. "Although, I agree. The only real difference is that you've got mousy brown hair instead of your usual stunning silver. It looks like you tied a dead squirrel to your head."

"They don't know you're a freak like me," Lambert said, destroying Jaskier's attempt at comfort. "If you'd walked in there like you normally are, you'd have been the one staring down the pitchforks."

"Hm," Geralt said, and they fell into silence. 

When they passed the bridge held by bandits, Jaskier was surprised to find them dead. Two appeared to have impaled themselves on their own swords, while a third swung from a tree. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier was afraid. Killing men was one thing, but what kind of creature could force a man to kill himself? He walked a little closer to the group and hoped they would not run into it. As he did so, Lambert lifted his head and sniffed the air. 

"Relax, bard. I dealt with them."

"This was you?" Jaskier asked, unable to keep the horror from his voice. 

"You're acting like you've never seen someone use axii before."

"Not to make someone kill themselves!"

"Right, I forgot what a goody two shoes Geralt was," Lambert said with a roll of his eyes. Jaskier spluttered wordlessly for a few moments. Despite his prickly exterior, Jaskier counted Lambert as a friend. He had welcomed him to Kaer Morhen as soon as Jaskier had proven himself willing to tease Geralt. He had even gone so far as to make a batch of alcohol weak enough to not outright kill a human. He had shown Jaskier kindness, in his own peculiar way. And Jaskier liked him. Lambert made him laugh, and he was always willing to share his stories. The idea that one of his friends had done something he found so heinous was disconcerting. 

If his discomfort bothered Lambert, he gave no sign of it. They marched until Jaskier judged Geralt had reached his limit, at which point he put his foot down and refused to walk a step further. He was, he claimed, far too tired to proceed. Geralt agreed immediately, and Lambert a moment later, complaining about the weakness of humans. 

After dinner, they sat in quiet contemplation. Jaskier played his lute, while Lambert and Geralt stared into the fire. After a long silence, Lambert lashed out and struck Geralt in the shoulder. The blow had enough force behind it to send Geralt flying. Jaskier scurried after him, abandoning his lute and grabbing the bag with their medical gear. A large purple bruise spread across Geralt's shoulder, and when Jaskier probed the joint, he hissed in pain. It sat at an awkward angle, and when Geralt tried to move, he grunted in pain. 

“Dislocated.”

"I didn't - Geralt, quit fooling around!" Lambert said. He got to his feet, gesturing angrily at Geralt. 

Jaskier spared a moment to kiss Geralt's cheek before he stood, glaring at Lambert with all the hatred he could muster. He stormed across the camp and slapped him across the face. He put his hips into the blow, just like Geralt had taught him, and it was enough to make his head turn with the blow. The sound of the slap seemed to echo throughout the night. Jaskier hadn't actually expected his blow to connect . He considered following up with a second blow, but instead he said, 

"Apologise."

Lambert gaped at him. "He was ignoring me."

"You're an idiot. He couldn't hear you, you moron. And even if he could, you've never once hurt me, so you must know exactly what a human can handle. You have no excuse. And human is what Geralt is now until we fix this. Apologise."

Lambert mumbled something under his breath. Even Jaskier could not make it what he said so he kicked him in the shin and told him to try again, louder this time. 

"Fuck, you're pushy. Fine. I'm sorry, alright? I didn't even hit him properly, it's not my fault Geralt's weak as shit right now."

"That's a shit apology," Jaskier told him. He was about to demand better when Geralt interrupted. 

"I'll accept it if you put my shoulder back."

"Yeah, yeah. Can't have you running around half broken," Lambert grumbled. He crouched down beside Geralt, his hands hovering over his shoulder. "You, uh, need to take something?"

"Just do it," Geralt grunted. Lambert shrugged and put his hands on his shoulder, popping the joint back into place as if it were no more difficult than lifting his weapon. Geralt let out a low grunt at the sudden movement, then exhaled slowly. While he collected himself, Jaskier began to root through his herbs, picking out the ones Geralt always gave him for pain. 

"Don't need pain relief," Geralt protested.

"Too bad. I'm not giving you a choice," Jaskier said. "It's this or poppy."

Geralt took the herbs. That night, Jaskier stroked his hair and crooned a soothing lullaby until he drifted off into uneasy sleep.

The next day, Lambert treated them both with obvious caution. He insisted giving Jaskier his horse while Geralt rode Roach, unwilling to risk them tiring or exhausting themselves. As they travelled, he pestered Geralt with questions about being human and was horrified at every answer. After learning how poor a human’s nose was, Lambert cursed up a storm.

“Fuck. Any good news?”

Geralt considered, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Turns out our emotions aren’t just somatic reactions. I still feel things the same.”

“Well, obviously,” Lambert snorted. Jaskier bit his tongue, knowing Geralt would never forgive him if he thanked Lambert for that statement. With Jaskier silent, the pause that followed dragged out. After several pained seconds, Geralt asked,

“What do you mean, obviously?”

“Don’t tell me you fell for that bullshit,” Lambert said. “It was a lie to get us to ignore our emotions and do what we were told.”

“Vesemir wouldn’t - “

“Vesemir held me down while they strapped me in to Sad Albert for the Trial of the Grasses,” Lambert snarled. “And he would have done the same to you, if you hadn’t gone obediently.”

Both humans winced. Even to Jaskier, the Trial of the Grasses was a frightening thing. He had heard whispers about the pain, about feeling every organ in your body dissolve only to be rebuilt by mutagens. Three in ten, was what they said. Just three in ten survived it. And to know that, and be held down, and know there was no escape - even thinking about it, Jaskier felt fear clawing up his throat as his mind screamed at him to run. He could only imagine what the words did to Geralt, the only person who had survived the Trial twice.

The next day, Jaskier asked,

“Lambert, I never did ask, why did you burst into our room like that? How did you even know we were there?”

“You’re not quiet,” Lambert said, which made Geralt laugh. “And I could smell you. After all the time you spent staring at Geralt’s ass last winter, I didn’t think you’d be fucking someone else, and he doesn’t smell right. And like I said, my medallion was vibrating. Still is.”

“What did you think I was?” Geralt asked.

“Wasn’t sure. My first thought was succubus, given the sex, but they don’t radiate half as much magic. You reek of it.”

“Wait a minute,”Jaskier said, grinning. “You thought Geralt had - had magically entranced me, or something, so you were heroically rushing to my rescue.”

“I wasn’t going to let Geralt’s bard die,” Lambert said, and Jaskier beamed. Lambert had been worried about him. Any lingering concern he had harboured about his dramatic entrance evaporated in a heartbeat. He made eye contact with Geralt and wiggled his eyebrows, and walked with a spring in his step for the next hour.

Despite Geralt's injury, the return journey to where they had been ambushed took over a day less than their original trip. Lambert pushed them hard, and Geralt had finally started to learn what pain he could push through and what pain needed extra care. Each night, Jaskier found excuses to rub his back or his feet and slip him a little extra food. 

When they reached the site of the ambush, Lambert let out a low whistle. Rotting corpses scattered the battlefield. "Tracks are old, but I should be able to follow them. Mage was bleeding pretty badly."

He set a course into the woods. Jaskier and Geralt followed blindly, trusting that he was right. Even with his knowledge of tracking, Geralt's senses were too dull to pick up on the faded boot prints and drops of dried blood. 

The track led them to an elven ruin. After Lambert sliced his way through a group of wraiths, they descended into the ruin and found a portal. Geralt drew his sword. Both he and Lambert oiled their steel blades with venom and prepared a selection of bombs. Once ready, they exchanged a look and a nod and stepped through the portal. Jaskier followed a few seconds later and stepped into chaos. 

Fire and screams filled the air. Geralt was engaged in a battle with two mercenaries, while Lambert stood a few paces ahead with three corpses around him. Further away, men screamed as bombs of fire and ice killed them before they even reached the battle. 

Lambert paid no attention to the chaos. He stormed across the room, slaughtering anyone who stood in his way until he reached a man in robes. He hit him, breaking his nose, then forced him to his knees. He kept his sword pressed against the man's throat. His expression was more than half feral, and Jaskier suspected it was taking a great deal of willpower for him not to kill the mage. 

A gurgling sound alerted Jaskier to the fate of Geralt's opponents. Geralt himself stepped over their bodies and walked forward, limping and dripping blood from his right thigh as he did so. 

"You know who that is?" Lambert asked, and smiled a vicious smile when the mage nodded. "Turn him back."

"He'll kill me."

"He might. But if you don't, I definitely will," Lambert said. He pressed his sword a little closer to the mage, and blood pooled and ran down the edge of his blade. The mage closed his eyes and raised his hands. A blast of wind blew out from Geralt and Jaskier's ears popped. Geralt fell to his knees, then to the ground. 

Then the screaming started. 

At the first sign of pain from Geralt, Lambert decapitated the mage, but the screaming did not stop . Jaskier had heard him scream before, but never like this. He had never heard anyone in the sheer depths of agony Geralt appeared to be as he writhed on the floor.

"Aw, fuck," Lambert said, which really summarized the situation as far as Jaskier was concerned. "We should've known."

"Known what?" Jaskier asked, glancing at Lambert out of the corner of his eyes. Lambert shook his head. He gestured to Geralt and said, "This isn't going to be pretty. You might want to wait outside."

"I'm not leaving him."

"Fine. But he's not going to stop, not to his voice gives out."

Four hours later, his prediction came true. Geralt's voice roughened and deepened before giving out entirely. His hair fell out in clumps and grew back over the course of an hour, coming in as silver as the moon. His teeth did much the same, clattering to the ground and growing back sharper and stronger. He grew, too, his clothes tearing at the seams as his shoulders broadened and his muscles grew. His breath came in heaving, agonised pants. At the same time, he lost what little control he held over his body. He soiled himself and vomited over the floor. His nails dug into his own skin, leaving horrible cuts behind, and into the stone floor, leaving narrow lines. Through it all, Lambert held Jaskier back, insisting there was nothing he could do.

After over half a day, he collapsed limp against the ground. Jaskier lept up and scrambled to his side. 

"He's alive. Didn't take as long as expected, either," Lambert said. Jaskier fell to his knees beside Geralt, breathing a deep sigh of relief. He reached for him with trembling hands and folded Geralt's hand between his own. It was warmer than he had felt for days, and it caused a similar warmth to bloom through Jaskier's chest. 

"Would you bring Roach through? I'd like to help him clean up."

"Huh. Wouldn't have thought of that," Lambert said, and left to find the horses. 

Working carefully, Jaskier removed the tattered remains of Geralt's clothing. The scars he knew and loved were back, telling a story of a life fraught with danger. The cleaner rags he used to wipe Geralt clean of the shit and piss and vomit that had stained him, then washed his hands. He collected a bowl of water and held it up for Lambert. 

"Igni, please."

Lambert raised an eyebrow. "Bossy, aren't you?"

"And you're an asshole. Just heat the damn water, will you?"

There was a flare of flame, and when Jaskier tested the water with his finger he found it pleasantly warm. He thanked Lambert and added a couple of drops of scented oil to the water. He then bathed Geralt again, this time cleaning away the sweat and leaving his skin soft and clean. Once Geralt had been dried and dressed, he had Lambert carry him over to a bedroll set up in a neighbouring room. With Geralt dealt with, Jaskier built a small fire and began to cook. 

He and Lambert ate in silence. After a long time, Lambert said, "At least he's got you, this time."

"This time?"

"They didn't bother to clean us until we woke up. No point bathing a corpse, I guess. And Vesemir never thought of heating the water, either. 

Jaskier frowned, staring into the fire. "I liked Vesemir, but the more I learn, the more I want to have words with him."

"Skip straight to punching. You've got a decent left hook."

From a witcher, that was high praise indeed. "I'll think about it."

They were interrupted by a low groan from Geralt. Jaskier dropped what he was doing and scrambled to his side and took Geralt's hand. Geralt squeezed it, and the corners of his lips tugged up. 

"Jaskier."

"Geralt," Jaskier said. Geralt hummed. 

"I missed your voice," he said, and opened his sunshine-yellow eyes. Jaskier was lost in them immediately. A foolish grin spread across his face as he stared into Geralt's eyes as though hypnotised. He reached out to touch Jaskier's cheek, and Jaskier lunged in with a kiss. He all but climbed into Geralt's lap, bubbling with excitement and sheer joy at Geralt's restoration. He would never have to see the horrible blue of his cursed eyes ever again. 

"Mm. That's a nice way to wake up," Geralt murmured. He kissed his cheek and shifted him to one side as he sat up, lifting him as if he weighed no more than a feather. He looked over at Lambert and nodded.

"Lambert. Thanks."

"Yeah. I just hope you don't regret it."

"I don't. And I owe you one."

"Oh, I know, " Lambert said. "You two love birds alright from here on out?"

"Yeah, we're good," Geralt said. He got to his feet and pulled Lambert into a hug. Lambert slapped him on the back with enough force to break an ordinary man's ribs and grinned before exiting through the portal. 

"So," Jaskier said, but Geralt covered his mouth with one hand. He fell silent as Geralt shut his eyes and exhaled, then inhaled. A small smile settled on his face. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and removed his hand. 

"I missed you."

"I've been here all along."

"You didn't smell right. Or sound right. I couldn’t hear - “

“My heart, I know. You complained every day,” Jaskier said. He took Geralt’s hand and placed it over his chest. “You hear it now?”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed, and relaxed for the first time in weeks. He then set Jaskier aside and made his way over to the fire, helping himself to the food Jaskier had cooked. Once fed, he tended to Roach, who was plainly delighted to have her witcher back. 

They left the ruin shortly after, leaving the darkness and corpses behind them. Geralt led them through the forest. As they walked, he would occasionally comment on their surroundings. A pack of wolves Jaskier never would have noticed followed them for an hour out of curiosity, but scarpered off when Geralt took three steps towards them. Certain flowers he pointed out as having delicate patterns invisible to the human eye, while others had a gentle perfume only witchers could smell. As they walked, Geralt listened to the rush of a nearby river. They camped on a little hill beside it, high enough that they would not need to worry about drowners, but close enough that they would have fresh water.

Geralt groaned when Jaskier pulled out his lute, but Jaskier shook his head. “I want to try something. Please?”

He picked the base string of the lute and asked Geralt to remember it. He then picked a specific fret on the next string and plucked that string instead. It was too low, so he adjusted it until it sounded correct to his well-trained ear. He had spent years learning to make sure his instrument was perfectly in tune, and could now tune it in his sleep. But it may not be enough for Geralt.

“Is that the same?”

“Too low,” Geralt said instantly, without hesitation. Jaskier’s eyebrows rose, but he immediately tweaked the peg. The next try was still too low, then too high, though Jaskier himself could not determine any difference in pitch. Once Geralt declared them the same, he moved on with the next pair of strings. When it was done, he began to play. Geralt listened with rapt attention, for once not wincing or complaining about the racket. 

After three songs, he told Jaskier the thinnest string had lost its pitch. Jaskier tweaked it again, and kept playing. He played until the sun had long since set, and only their small campfire lit the darkness. 

As soon as Jaskier set his lute aside, Geralt shifted over. He traced his fingers over Jaskier’s jaw and tilted his face up so that their eyes met. Jaskier felt heat stir in his belly as he stared into Geralt’s golden eyes. As much as he loved the thin-slitted pupils that came in the daylight, there was a special place in his heart for moments like this, when Geralt’s pupils were dilated and huge and fixed on him. A moment later, Geralt smirked.

“Mm. You weren’t lying when you said you liked me like this.”

“Was that ever in doubt?” Jaskier asked.

“I couldn’t smell it before,” Geralt said. “Couldn’t be sure.”

“Couldn’t - oh,” Jaskier said, and was surprised by how much he liked the idea. Geralt chuckled. It was a low, rumbling sound that turned Jaskier’s knees to jelly.

“I can’t wait to know you like this properly,” he said, and kissed Jaskier. For his part, Jaskier was happy to be known.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter: Geralt discovers his limits and confronts a big myth about witchers


End file.
